dénouement
by MarginalMary
Summary: Five acts of resolution when everything else falls apart. TouRin.
1. Act I Scene i

**_Act I: Deceit_**

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_Act I Scene i_

With dark hair, a tender smile, and three pairs of white wings, an angel lifts Yuzu and strokes her quivering lips, soothing, "Hush, now. I've seen too many little girls cry." His power is overwhelming, forcing everyone in the vicinity to the ground.

Prostrate, beaten and petrified, Karin watches her sister's eyes flutter closed, seemingly comforted as she falls under the angel's spell, entranced by his soft words. But Karin is not fooled, not taken in — the angel's not an angel at all, only a demon wearing counterfeit wings.

Desperate fear gives Karin just enough power to rise on her knees, just a taste to tease, further proving she's weak and worthless — strong enough to know what's truly happening but too weak to affect the outcome — just like always. Despair flooding her face, Karin tries to form a warning or a plea, but her mouth will not obey because a weight against her windpipe, against everything, strangles her.

No matter how hard she tries, how frantic her need to fight back, Karin can do nothing to defend her sister. Can't even say a word.

But Yuzu manages what Karin cannot; suddenly, her honey eyes open wide and terrified, and she screams her sister's name, begging Karin to run or to stay — plea unclear. And before the deafening shriek fades away, Yuzu begins to dissolve, body and soul, under the lying angel's touch. She seems to glow, lit up from within, comprised of so many colored beads like fireflies. Then, she becomes insubstantial, flicking and transparent, losing dimension. Too soon, she dissipates, just vanishes like nothing. And when she disappears, Yuzu leaves her dainty dress and Mary Jane's behind.

Eleven years to perfect, a single second to consume. One dress and one pair of shoes wasted.

**Gone.**

Karin watches in silent horror as Yuzu's clothes slip to pavement, unable to do more than cry: bodily surrender she hates. But it doesn't matter now. Karin needn't be strong when the source and purpose of her strength has disappeared. Now, she has lost her twin, so tears fall without shame; Karin breaks her promise not to cry.

Yuzu deserves her tears, deserves anguish and sickness, because Karin broke another, larger promise, a goal as central as breathing: a blood oath to protect her sister.

Karin keels over facedown, the borrowed power to rise abandoning her swiftly. And before she falls unconscious, she prays the demon with wings kills her next.

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IDN Bleach

**_Dedicated to Felia with love and anguish. (The two genres she thought this story should embody.)_**

~Mare


	2. Act I Scene ii

_Act I Scene ii_

But Karin wakes hours later, maybe days, able move again.

The weight is gone just like Yuzu, and Karakura is demolished all around her, a fitting war zone. The building are scarred, their windows smashed, and the landscape is cracked and scabbed; she'd like to think the pain on the inside has rearranged the world, destroying it to match. But she knows that wish is idle because the atmosphere is too silent while inside she howls. The heedless sun should have imploded, and the people around her — brother, father, brother's friends — should be writhing.

But the sun shines and the people don't writhe in her kind of pain.

Thoughtless, Karin seeks the place Yuzu dissolved, lifting her sister's empty dress and pressing it to her hollow chest. And she kneels, head bowed, wishing her clothes were empty too. She closes her eyes and remembers the end again, tries to remember the beginning. Karin watches Yuzu's stolen life flash through her mind in freeze frames, significant moments and meaningless ones but all of them precious now. Things she'd taken of granted: she should have told Yuzu what a wonder it was to have her in the world.

She doesn't try to make excuses, doesn't hide her guilt in tears. She hangs herself from failure, braiding together broken promises like a noose. All the while, she grasps an empty dress, kneeling in front of empty Mary Jane's.

Karin ignores everything and everyone, the sound of life resurrected elsewhere, because nothing matters. She's not ready to face them, can't think of a single reason she should. And when two familiar shadows fall across her; when two hands belonging to her only remaining family members fall to her shoulders; when their gentle voices try to comfort her, Karin cannot respond.

"No. Let go, Karin. She's dead."

She hears those words — not so gentle as before — as her father moves to pull Yuzu's dress away. Those words, the reality of them, echo like chopping off her fingers and toes, little bits of her cleaved, over and over until she wonders why her body subsists — moves and breathes — without Yuzu.

Not fair, not right, not… real.

Repeat the requiem's refrain.

**Scream.**

Karin surpasses the limits of agony, hate, and fury. In that moment, she courts hell, only a heartbeat away, but her heart is silent and still, won't beat, doesn't count time moving forward. Yuzu's murder extracts pieces of her as the world spins without her sister, more and more and more, until it has stolen more than Karin contains, reaching past her, intent to devour everything she touches.

And she becomes calamity, unhinged as the last of Yuzu slips between her fingers.


	3. Act I Scene iii

_Act I Scene iii_

Yuzu is gone, reducing the world to a playpen for blasphemers who tell Karin it's time to stand up and go home. Gone, reducing the same world she managed to knit together at age 5 after their mother died.

Yuzu is — _was _—the cornerstone, the steady rock on which they've built a passable family, odd and violent but full of something like love. Now, their family splinters, divided by guilt, shame, and grief, and no one dares intrude. Father pretends they'll be happy again, brother trapped in 'what ifs' and 'if onlys', and Karin weathers storms, somewhere between feeling everything and nothing all at once.

For three days, no one speaks, hugs, or eats. The last meal Yuzu cooked goes rancid in the fridge, wasted just like her dress and her shoes. And people stop by to offer their condolences, but for her part, Karin refuses to open the locked door of Yuzu's and her bedroom. She just stews in listless misery, sleeping while awake, laughing and crying, reliving the past because there's nothing else to do.

When they bury Yuzu's memory — the ashes of a dress and a pair of shoes — Karin stares past the brand new memorial and her mother's beside it. Then suddenly, she grins, turning to her brother and asking, "Hey, why does Yuzu get one, and I don't? Favoritism much?"

From that moment on, Ichigo fears for her. And Karin does not care.

No one explains exactly what happened, not how nor why, deciding it's best Karin doesn't know. Not yet, she's just a child. The only information she gleans is the demon with wings is dead, but that's no comfort because her brother killed him; she'll never have vengeance. So, Karin doesn't ask for details because the details are pointless. The fact remains: Ichigo and Goat Chin were too late to save Yuzu, and Karin was too weak.

She blames others for everything. Blames them vehemently, but mostly, she blames herself.

Nothing to hold on to but the memory of Yuzu's face when she disappeared and the way she looked — ugly beautiful — when she screamed her sister's name.

When the funeral is over, Karin withdraws to her bedroom, closes her eyes and bangs her head against the wall as hard as she can, hoping ineffectually to knock it down. Hoping to shatter the capricious world she lives in, needing to hurt something so badly even the walls are no longer safe. Slugs on pavement, leaves on trees, books on shelves, and… no one is exempt. She will hurt them all, crushing and tearing and ripping and throwing them all way. They don't matter when nothing matters.

_No. Let go, Karin. She's dead. _

**Impossible.**


	4. Act I Scene iv

_Act I Scene iv_

To people who still heed time, three months pass. And these people tell Karin it is time to move on. Even her brother and father, who can no longer look at Karin properly, tell her to let Yuzu go.

But she won't because she can't. Can't look at herself in the mirror either.

And one unremarkable night, Karin doesn't sleep. Instead, she leans back against the beaten wall, knees bent and arms hanging to either side pathetically, and her shoulder length knotted hair obscures vacant eyes.

These restless hours plague Karin, suffocating her with the masking tape line she's laid to bisect the room — her discarded half in the present and Yuzu's dusty half in the past. And the white tape glows dully in the moonlight, trapping Karin's absent stare, killing her but never permitting her to die.

She can only stare opaquely at that merciless divide until it begins to blur with tears.

A line of masking tape she will not cross.

Because if Karin does, her twin will really be dead — Yuzu won't be there. So instead, she lives on the line between the present and the past and refuses to breathe, pretending Yuzu's half of the room is reality and her own half is just a nightmare.

Pretends Yuzu's sleeping on the empty bed across the room, thankful her eyes are closed to the tears Karin hides in the dark.

This is her ritual, penance for failing to save her sister and an apology for surviving. A line on which to suffer through the night until the tears become dry heaves, and she genuflects, face pressed into the covers and fists beating the mattress, screaming soundlessly.

No words, just a low keen because there is no absolution for failure, no forgiveness for survival.

And then…

**Absolutely nothing**.

Nothingness: the nightly climax of her shame, the stillness after self mortification. It's all contained in a single moment when Karin tries desperately to remember the weight of Yuzu's hand in her own, but she can't remember; the second when she tries to recall the secrets they've shared, only to realize those secrets aren't secrets anymore.

Because Yuzu is dead, and so she knows nothing. These once-were-secrets between the living and the dead are now only bits of Karin no one knows.

For hours, she stays there, sinking and waiting patiently for the sunlight to creep across the floor and eat her. The beginning of another day to mock Karin, May 6, one year older than Yuzu…


	5. Act I Scene v

_Act I Scene v_

As the sun peeks into Karin's bifurcated room, she adds another day to 934 days she has lived without Yuzu.

She's grown up a little, trying to put on a convincing show. At school, she buries herself in paper and pencils, working hard to get the grade, to achieve for two instead of one. She has joined clubs and sports teams, making cakes on Tuesdays and Thursdays and playing games on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And she wants it to look easy, like it's no trouble at all, like she doesn't need anyone's help.

Because Ichigo's hardly ever home, off to 'college,' though Karin suspects he hasn't set foot in a classroom in years. He attempts to talk, to be there for his sister, but the divide is thick with mutual regret, regret which has hardened into resentment. The love between them doesn't fade, but the proof — the evidence — has disappeared. Each of them wonders if the other even cares, but neither asks. The silence between them rages on, but at least, Ichigo has friends to lean on. Karin has no one, and even if she did, she wouldn't dare lean on anyone ever again.

Their dad wants to make it all better and bitches and moans to the posters of his wife and daughter almost everyday. But he can't fix his family. The missing pieces are the connecting ones; without her wife and Yuzu, there's nothing to bind them.

That's why Karin avoids her house. Watching her brother open his mouth to say something only to close it a second later typifies the gulf between them. Watching her father try so hard to goad a smile makes Karin want to cry instead.

But it's not grief anymore. Not really. Only guilt.

This morning, the sound of voices downstairs in the kitchen disturbs her much earlier than usual. Her index finger twitching unconsciously, she tries to ignore the buzz undercutting the silence, but it will not desist, perforating her dull misery.

Numb, Karin rises out of bed mechanically, planning to drink water for breakfast, drown in the shower, dress blind, and smirk big at school. Skirting the yellowed masking tape with practiced ease, she ghosts out of her bedroom; then she pulls the door closed behind her with lingering fingertips.

Loving and hating the room, aide memoire of Yuzu.

Padding to the top of the stairs, she overhears Ichigo ask their father, "I know what you said before, but don't you think she is in the Soul Society? Yuzu wasn't killed by a hollow, and I just… All souls go to the Soul Society. She should be there, damnit!" Then the sound of his fist hitting the table, frustrated.

Eyes wide, Karin freezes, both hands clutching the banister to keep from tumbling down. Vaguely nauseated and too alive, she strains her ears and cobwebby brain.

"Keep your voice down, idiot. Karin's sleeping. We already talked about this… a million times. Even _if_ Yuzu was there—"

An echo of her old self — the past — digests this information, one question of a million finally answered, but now — the present — she does not wonder, doesn't want to know more, can't even remember the endless questions which once plagued her.

Where did Yuzu go? **The Soul Society.**

That is all Karin needs to know.


	6. Act I Scene vi

_Act I Scene vi_

Running into the bathroom and locking the door behind her, Karin pulls open the drawers below the sink with frenzied hands, looking for something deadly, anything to promise a bit of more pain, then absolution and forgiveness.

Yuzu will not be alone anymore.

Karin will not be alone.

She's not afraid.

Not afraid of death. She has always known it's not the end; and now she knows that wherever Yuzu is - The Soul Society - Yuzu is _still_ Yuzu.

Death, pst. The idea of shedding this half-life seems like resurrection. Karin has been putting on good show, a game she played with impressive skill, but she's tired of playing. Because, really, she's not been living, only been pretending.

Karin has never surrendered; she's still a fighter, but she hasn't felt like a winner in a long time. And now, the tantalizing zing of victory is so close.

Somewhere out there, Yuzu must be waiting at the finish line, tired, probably scared, definitely lonely. So Karin swallows every human instinct and rational thought, fixing an image of her sister's sweetest smile at the forefront of her mind.

"Sorry, I'm late," Karin mutters vaguely under her breath, fingers combing through a cluttered drawer. Finally, a razor in her hand and peace in her heart, she glances at her reflection, finding a true smile on her lips. And even as she slashes both wrists lengthwise and the creases of both elbows to inflect maximum damage, the smile does not falter because the burning sting is exquisite, so intense she experiences it with all five senses. A taste like salt and metal, and a sound throbbing and pulsing like thunder against her temples. The smell swims in her nose, unnamed but dredging memories of more pain, scrapped knees and paper cuts.

Lifting one hand, Karin watches blood painting her fingernails red and pooling her upturned palm. Absurdly, she laughs because for the first time in years, she remembers the weight of Yuzu's hand in her own and the warmth of their secrets.

Satisfaction and a sense of good health, alive as she dies.

And the razor slips from her other hand, a clang and splat, blood everywhere. Then, she sways with morbid grace like dancing on the aged masking tape line while little black dots bloom on the surface of the mirror and her teeth chatter furiously.

Knees buckling, Karin hits the tile with force and resounding _flump_, but the fall does not hurt. She's exceeded the physical limits of pain and so feels no fear or regret, only a dim impatience for the end.

Because Yuzu must be waiting in the Soul Society.

Closing her over-bright eyes slowly, Karin listens to the staccato of her brother and father running up the stairs, startled by the sound of her collapse, and then their banging on the door, yelling meaningless words.

Distantly comes the rattle of splintered wood. Little chips raining down on her, Karin uses the last of her strength to glare up at rescuers stupidly. There is desperate purpose in her flagging voice for the first time in years when she says, "Don't save me."

Because inside Karin is thinking, _This is salvation._

For a few futile moments, she watches them scramble to save her anyway, but when she closes her eyes for the last time, Karin's confident that their battle for her life is pointless.

With no will to survive and no possibility to heal, Karin has been dying too long.

They told her to let go, forced her to exist in ignorance, and asked her to pretend not to see what's real. Pretend the butterflies are only butterflies. Pretend the monsters are shadows. Pretend the ghosts are mirages.

They said to let go of Yuzu.

**No.**

This is the only way.

_Let go, Karin._

This is Karin letting go of the past because she will find her sister in the future.

_Yuzu is dead_.

And so is Karin.


	7. Aside I

**_Aside I: Deception:

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**_"Yet each man kills the thing he loves_**  
**_By each let this be heard,_**  
**_Some do it with a bitter look,_**  
**_Some with a flattering word,_**  
**_The coward does it with a kiss,_**  
**_The brave man with a sword!"

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_**

_Clearing her throat, Karin says conversationally, "Look bro, I've got to start looking, so tap me on the head or whatever and send me off." _

"_But—" Ichigo starts, brown eyes horrified, standing there yapping for the last quarter of an hour, making a mess of her goodbye. _

"_I'm sad, but I'm not sorry," she interrupts, explaining the situation to her brother and dad as best as she is able, her face set in an impressive scowl. "I need to find Yuzu."_

_Sputtering in agitation, Ichigo opens his mouth to set her straight again. _

_But Karin just smiles, stepping forward bravely and pressing her forehead against the hilt of his big sword just like he told her earlier. Turning glinting azure eyes on her father, she reminds him, "I love you, Dad, but you have _a lot_ of explaining to do when we next see each other." Like how the hell he can see her and knows about the Soul Society. Just before she disappears, Karin whispers, "I'll find a way. You'll see when we meet again on the other side."_

_The last they see of her is a cheeky grin, reminiscent of a younger Karin who was — ironically — much more alive than she'd been in recent years. _

"_Ichigo," her father interjects in a warning tone. With one grave look, he silences his son. "Karin made her choice." He reaches out as if to catch the swallowtail butterfly which was his middle child moments ago, but he doesn't even touch it. Speaking to no one in particular, Ishiin whispers, "Aizen didn't just kill Yuzu. He destroyed her soul...my baby girl... Soul Society, pst. Yuzu isn't there, and even if she was, she wouldn't remember."_

_Having heard this a million times and still deeply in denial, Ichigo shoots his father dark glare. But then a new thought seizes him. He hesitates, expression abruptly pitying. "But..," he mutters, "Karin won't remember either." _

_With a sigh, Ishiin nods thoughtfully. Eventually, he turns to his son with rare solemn eyes, suggesting, "Maybe... it's better this way." He places a consoling hand on Ichigo's shoulder and squeezes bracingly. "She'll be happier, and that's enough for me. What say you?"_

_Unsure if hiding the truth is selfish or selfless, Ichigo opens his mouth, changes his mind, and then swallows woodenly. _

_

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_

A.N:

Quote by Oscar Wilde in "The Ballad of Reading Gaol."_  
_


	8. Act II Scene i

_**Act II: Defeat**_

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_Act II Scene i_

Prone facedown, his cracked lips quiver, and his labored respirations engender tiny plumes of ash and dust. Hot blood pours in screaming streams from the stump of his left arm and leg and oozes from the great slash, shoulder to hip, sanguine liquid running away hastily.

Escaping the fallout, abandoning him, just like the vengeful fever he couldn't sustain.

How ever unwillingly, the rage mutates with impotence, shame, and regret, turning inside out and becoming more than he can weather.

Instead of slaying that twisted monster who threatened his Momo, Toushirou played the cautionary fool used as the weapon of her destruction. Not a hero, just fool.

And she asked him, _Why?_ But there was, _is_, no answer; only the tortured keening within, writhing beneath his skin, burgeoning — above the register of human hearing. A dual expression of remorse: soundless and deafening.

Remorse for them **both**.

Unable to do more than blink furiously, Toushirou strains his ears past the awkward perceptions of his pathetic state, listening for the sound Momo's flagging breathing beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her bloodless face, motionless as stone and oddly peaceful, but he ignores her lifeless features, his fevered gaze riveted to a wisp of her chocolate fringe which dances imperceptibly as she inhales and exhales feebly.

Just a few dancing strands of her hair tether Toushirou to life, and for a long time, he drifts, the foggy outline of almost-thoughts hurling themselves against the frozen barrier of his conscious mind. Sensationalized impressions of his surrounding register dimly, quickly and easily fading into disregard for self; but a tempest is brewing — the devastation coming as her sputtering heart counts precious seconds growing old — brewing beyond the wall in his head between awareness and emotion, adding violence to the tremors of shock wracking his body.

At any moment, those strands dancing, hovering above her mouth, will still; they will freeze; and the entire world will go cold. And it will be Toushirou's fault, entirely his fault, and his frosted numb will shatter.

Wheezing, absently noting globules of blood seeping out of the corners of his mouth, he gathers the final dregs of reiatsu from pit of his soul and pushes it outward in a solitary wave. The exertion costs him dearly, taxing more than strength; he spends more than he has to touch Momo — how much life did he just trade to touch her one last time? — but he needs to feel her springtime aura resonate against his wintry one like an April breeze.

In constant motion, they've been running in circles, making the same mistakes over and over. She's always in the wrong place at right time, and he's always in the right place at the wrong time. Both of them, giving too much away when they lose their heads. Too different; too alike. How strange, this symmetric contradiction: it's been years since he's told her the whole truth, years since her told herself the truth, and now, they have only seconds full of meaning — the will to speak but not the ability. And the frail wave of cool energy is meant to convey these and so many other things, but he's not stupid enough to hope she understands any of them.

Mostly, it's just an answer to the lingering unrest between them, that last fragile divide — something like apology in her soft eyes when she asked him, _Why? _

Why doesn't matter now; the fault is endless like the circles they run around each other.

They are both to blame, but she is the only one forgiven.

The spiritual echo, that warm zephyr he craves, brushes his skin like a whispered secret or blushing kiss, and it seems like, _Thank you_.


	9. Act II Scene ii

_Act II Scene ii_

In solemn silence, they lay side by side, she on her back in repose and he face down in defeat — a sort of cloistered vigil during which time seems to roil on the perimeter, unwilling to rob them of solitude. The profound lack of sound hovers over them like the aftershock of apocalypse.

To Toushirou, it feels as if the world holds its breath and waits. But waiting for what? He does not know, doesn't even try to guess, hasn't the capability to wonder.

_Just a little longer, _he reminds himself, remotely aware he is dying and forcing himself to remain conscious against the pain. Toushirou's doesn't need to survive, but he has to outlive her. _Can't leave her alone… _That bleary thought accompanies out of focus memories:

~ She isn't sure what to make of her new 'brother,' a bony toddler who doesn't want "misshapen lumps you call 'cookies.'" Her mouth puckers in an indignant pout, and his scowl cracks down the center, an almost-smile threatening.

~ She smiles winningly, telling him all about the boys in the square playing tops. They are very cool, she tells him. He just rolls his eyes tempestuously; but secretly, he resolves to learn to spin tops too.

~ Due to an ungainly swing of her practice sword, she trips, but he catches her around the middle; instead of pulling her back as planned, he is propelled forward with her because he's smaller than she is. Down, they go, one laughing and the other cursing.

~ She's nearly trembling under the exertion of restraining herself; she's just _so _proud of him. But, she reminds herself, he would not like it if she hugged him breathless after his graduation ceremony. However, he can see right through her flimsy formality. It doesn't suit her. So, he pulls her off to a secluded corner and tells her "to get it over with then." With a muffled squeal, she flings herself at him.

~ She mulls her bottom lip, listening to him repeat — for the 100th time — an order to "stick to her superior like glue" and not to do "anything stupid or particularly brave." He's doing that thing he does when he worries, standing imposingly with his arms crossed and brows pinched. His behavior would be funny if it wasn't so insufferably condescending. "Yes, _Mother_, I love you too," she replies cheekily, flicking him on the nose much to his chagrin and embarrassment.

~ She runs out into Rukongai through West Gate recklessly, and Toushirou finds himself — how ever unwilling — bringing up the rear again. Flash-step races: whoever gets to Granny's house last for supper has to do the dishes.

~ Her fingers weaving through the air and feet pounding the earth rhythmically, she spins graceful, dangerous magic. And he watches her, eying her vice-captain badge with especial interest. Something aching occurs inside him, a miasma of pride, fear, awe, joy, and loss.

~ She yawns hugely, head drooping onto his shoulder. His expression softens as he stares up at the stars, glad she dragged him up here to watch the meteor shower after all. Well, glad _until_ he discovers a wet patch on his hiaori where she has drooled on him.

_No more, _Toushirou rages soundlessly, forced to bleed through a vivid retelling of their life together. He is not opposed to more mental pictures of her animated face or energetic voice, but the rest — more _recent_ memories — offer naught but pain: the last act of a sluggish tragedy.

But there's nothing he can do to stave off recollections of the end of halcyon days. And his aquamarine eyes dim, empty as the windows of an abandoned house, as he watches a bloodless Momo die peripherally and the bloody reminiscences at the forefront of his mind.

Caged in his foggy unreality, Toushirou does not even blink when Retsu Unohana's hurried footsteps finally intrude upon the stillness. Only when she grasps the beaten captain's right shoulder to turn him over does he react at all. His sharp intake of breath — hitched with mind reeling pain — notifies her that he is still alive, and she whispers, "Oh, thank goodness," with marked relief.

She appraises his wounds, and despite her war hardened resolve, her gaze clouds with ageless sadness. His body has been nearly rent in two. Part of his left arm is laying, unattached, beneath him. Her despairing eyes rove the nearby destruction, looking for the 10th captain's missing leg, which she finds bent in at an unnatural angle several paces away.

Meanwhile, Toushirou's head lulls slightly in Momo's direction. With an effort of will none but the strongest possess, he commands his mouth to form words as abysmal dark descends heavily.

**"... Save her."**


	10. Act II Scene iii

_Act II Scene iii_

For Toushirou, his words do not linger, nor do their meaning, not even the desperate desire behind them. The world, which seems to have imploded, releases him without a fight. Those dire moments fraught with hopeless expectation of Momo's death do not follow him into abysmal dark. As if ripped from the trappings of self — memory, emotion, thought — and frozen in a state neither truly dead nor truly alive, Toushirou disappears deep into the confines of his soul.

Evading the darkness.

And so from ominous black comes omnipresent white, and for a time — a long time — there is only the whoosh of wind, glint of ice, and smell of frozen earth.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Coast and glide.

The effortless flight of oblivion, wings sweeping languidly through the frosty air.

His vision spans the barren landscape blanketed by vast glaciers to the South and ridged by white capped peaks to the North. In between, the snow bedded plains extend for uncounted leagues. Above, cotton clouds of every shape and size play upon the blinding blue heavens, creating a permeable floor through which to climb and dive at his leisure.

Now, he banks left and enjoys freedom — such euphoria — as if there could be no finer way to spend his life than wandering the updrafts and undercurrents of the majestic sky.

This is Toushirou's snowy domain, and here, he is beholden to nothing and no one, not even the ground to which lesser creatures cling. He is the master of this world, the most powerful being — the _only_ being— and so fear, pain, impotence… they do not trouble him here.

In fact, emotions of any kind, apart from a profound sense of divine right, exist on this plane only in the form of listless daydreams and few minute memories, fleeting and insignificant as a snowflake to an avalanche. There is only unassailed solitude, restive peace, and the irresistible inclination to ride the wind.

Toushirou veers with the current — always _with, _never _against _— traveling forward in the endless, open atmosphere. His massive crystalline wings beat lazily, adding momentum to his journey which leads everywhere and nowhere. The frigid air rushing through his massive jowls to feed his lungs feels wonderful, perfect. And the blue ice comprising his colossal frame glitters under a weak sun. His tail, which he uses as a rudder, swishes slightly with pleasure like a small celebratory wave to the ground far below.

Staring down out of large ruby eyes, Toushirou surveys his fiefdom cloaked in white with marked satisfaction. There's no better way to travel than to fly. And with an almighty roar, he lets it be known that there's no where else he'd rather be than here with only cotton clouds for company.

And yet… a sudden rumble like the cracking of an iced over lake interrupts, worming its way through his contentment and puncturing his tranquil state. The sound registers as would an irksome itch: peripheral, transitory, but nonetheless annoying.

The rumble grows louder then softer then louder again, and something about it — a dully understanding that cracking ice is objectionable if nothing else — causes Toushirou slight alarm.

Not fear, just… unease.

So he roars once more, fiercer and deafening though there is no one there to hear him.

And as his magnificent snarl rips through the air and the echo eventually fades over the mountains to the north, Toushirou is pleased to note that the indistinct rumbling has died away too. Tamped down like tumultuous waves beneath a glass smooth sheet of ice, like the lightless depths of the sea frozen over white.

Toushirou drifts onward alone as a **dragon** is wont to do.


	11. Act II Scene iv

_Act II Scene iv_

There it is again!

That peculiar rumbling at the outermost boundary of Toushirou's consciousness. Always coming and going — mostly going — during his most placid moments and demanding his attention, low and warbling, though its pitch. He's not sure what to make of it, not sure how to vanquish this invisible threat to his peace of mind.

The sound alone is not disconcerting; his world is full of sound. The whisper of falling snow, the swoosh of wings cutting through the air, and the occasional ferocious roar issuing from his maw when the impulse arrests him.

No, that isn't it at all. Rather, the idea that this sporadic rumbling has no external source, no ready explanation, is most unsatisfactory. Moreover, a far-flung corner of his brain is sure the idea is also impossible.

One of the talons extending from his left foreleg's paw catches a chink of feeble winter sunlight, drawing Toushirou's gemlike eyes from the ground far below and his attention from the maddening auditory illusion. The usually uniform sparkle of his body is interrupted by a minuscule fissure. The opaque white crack in his talon seems to glare back at him defiantly, stubbornly refusing to shine.

Startled by this discovery, Toushirou spins, completely a sort corkscrew movement, to see as much of his bulky frame as possible. But the effort yields little more than a scrambled impression of cool blue and glitter; he cannot tell how many — _if any_ — other fractures he's accrued over the last… how ever long he's been flying.

Here, time is oddly disjointed. Toushirou need not sleep, eat, or count something so trivial as seconds passing. In fact, he cannot remember the last time his flanged talons sunk into the tundra below.

Perhaps, they never have. Maybe, he's never touched the ground.

These stuttering observations — once again engaging that far-flung corner of his mind — engender compelling questions, questions which compete to seize control of his splintering thoughts, yanking in one direction than another with the rapidity and force of blizzard squalls.

Meanwhile, the unhappy white crack in his talon supplies a silent warning, a line like that of no return. Inside, the nonsensical rumble intensifies to a distinct crackle — a not-so-silent warning — like that of demolition under extreme pressure.

_It's me,_ he realizes with a jolt of uncomprehending panic. _The rumbling… _And with that unsettling thought, he banks sharply to the south, intent to reach the sun-gilded glaciers, to discover the extent of the damage in their reflective faces.

As he races, wings lashing furiously **against** the wind, the resultant air resistance breaks upon him mercilessly. His eyes sting, and snout smarts; and the unpleasant sensations dredge nightmare memories from another neglected corner of his mind.

The contents of this derelict corner are confused and swirling like hot breath smoking in frigid atmosphere: not tidy recollections, not pictures on a reel. Just the ghost of a ghost, not substance, but shadow: the afterimage of forgotten face.

Leaving him convinced that something more exists than he and this snowy paradise but completely unaware what that something might be.


	12. Act II Scene v

_Act II Scene v_

And so when he reaches the glistening glaciers, Toushirou descends feeling strangely as though he belongs down there. Then he flicks his tail once, sweeping aside the powdery snow to see his reflection clearly on the mirroring surface.

The crackling sound reaches a piercing crescendo as he watches the white fissure in his talon lengthen, racing up his foreleg to meet another cutting across his chest. From there, both web outward to meet their brothers, numerous, everywhere, covering him in a net of white lines, reminding him dimly of an impressive collection of battle scars. Some are wide; others long; all, he decides, are deep. In only seconds, his glorious blue body disappears under the noisy onslaught of fractures.

And multi-layered walls around his mind like so many frosty scales begin to shatter too.

All at once — or, perhaps, too long in coming — _human_ thoughts erupt from the previously unknown depths, crashing in dizzying waves, drowning him. This ice dragon shell in which Toushirou's true form has been sequestered lifts away because the cool numb of an unfettered beast cannot contain the humanity within, the intensity of his feeling and memories, his attachment to other beings who live firmly on the ground in another world so unlike this one.

Nerves zinging with long absent fire, Toushirou stands there quite motionless, watching the remnants of the once-was-dragon hang in midair all around him. The sad fragments of a simpler existence; he understands acutely the feeling of disconnection, the disillusionment requisite of breaking into bits.

An image of Momo, laying all but dead beside him, composes itself before his mind's eye, and the last vestige of well-being abandons him forthwith.

No one could go back, could they? No one could ever re-perfect perfection. Once broken and scattered, only the distance between mattered.

_"Ah, you finally heed my call,"_ intones a sonorous voice from everywhere and nowhere, calling to mind the slow destruction and powerful beauty that is ice.

Far from startled, Toushirou merely sighs. A pregnant silence ensues in which he only blinks and breathes, waiting for Hyourinmaru appear, waiting for him to explain how this came to pass. And sure enough, the shards of ice begin to dance, glittering, glittering, glittering brighter still. And the wind whips in a tight circle, circling a spot only a few paces away, circling ever tighter. A tinkling and a rustling punctuate the expectant silence. Then, the miniature icy cyclone coalesces once more into the colossal blue dragon.

The True Dragon.

_"Here, I planned to keep you, preserving your life until your soul could sustain you once more. Such grievous wounds, my youngling, such pain you endured… But the physical injuries you received did not bind you to this plane. Long has it been since you could have returned, but the damage to your mind and heart prevented you,"_ the dragon says gravely, his words — as ever — resounding in Toushirou's head rather than hanging in the frigid air because Hyourinmaru does not speak in the traditional sense. His alien red eyes are unfathomable.

Toushirou's expression tightens, and his hands balls into fists. But he cannot blame anyone for this latest in a long string of his weaknesses and failures. "I'm..," Toushirou trails, the apology on lodged uncomfortably in his throat incredibly lame. "Sorry." He considers for a moment the life he left behind and the reality to which he is likely to return. A rather childish argument to remain right where he is drops from his lips before he can reign it in. "What's the point though? Momo's dead, and I'm less than useless…"

Hyourinmaru's gleaming red eyes hardened to pitiless rubies, and he strikes out with his mighty tail, knocking off Toushirou off his feet and pinning him to the glacier's face. The dragon's voice booms like an avalanche, _"You've remained here far too long. What do you know of the world? As for uselessness... you certainly are useless when laid up in a bed for years, showing nary a sign of awaking!"_

_"You are broken, shattered, crushed? The spaces in between, while not irrelevant, do not define you. Fragmented though you are in this pathetic state, you cannot be mere empty space. Neither can you pick and chose which pieces of yourself are worth keeping."_

_"Shinigami, guardian of the frostbitten heavens. The noble captain of the 10th Division of the Empirical Court Guard. Yours is the birthright of dragons: my wielder."_

_"All this, I have laid at your ungrateful, unworthy feet. And still, none of my gifts define you."_

Shivering, Toushirou stares up at Hyourinmaru, lost and confused, so close to giving up but wanting desperately to understand.

After a thoughtful, weighted pause, the dragon's tone changes, now akin to virgin snow in the dead of night. _"_What_ you are is not _who_ you are. Your attributes… the contents of your character and capabilities of your mind… Youngling, they do not define you. __Rather,** you are the choices that you make**."_

_"So who are you?"_

A litany of choices, people Toushirou has been, dash through his searching mind.

All of them; none of them?

Once — somewhere between misshapen cookies and spinning tops — he chose to be a grandson and a brother.

He decided to protect and serve; became Shinigami.

He chose to fight for the right to swing the most magnificent snow and ice zanpakuto; became Hyourinmaru's wielder in full.

He chose the heavy white mantle; became a captain.

He chose to raise his blade in defense of his greatest and oldest friend's honor…

At so many of these, Toushirou knows he has failed.

Who is he when he does not know himself anymore?

It's a decision he needs to make.

_"Go find it,"_ Hyourinmaru commands, so sure hope is not lost, _"Go find the man you will become, and discover the boy you are."_


	13. Act II Scene vi

_Act II Scene vi_

_"So who are you?"_

A litany of choices, people Toushirou has been, dash through his searching mind.

All of them; none of them?

Once — somewhere between misshapen cookies and spinning tops — he chose to be a grandson and a brother.

He decided to protect and serve; became Shinigami.

He chose to fight for the right to swing the most magnificent snow and ice zanpakuto; became Hyourinmaru's wielder in full.

He chose the heavy white mantle; became a captain.

He chose to raise his blade in defense of his greatest and oldest friend's honor…

At so many of these, Toushirou knows he has failed.

Who is he when he does not know himself anymore?

It's a decision he needs to make.

_"Go find it,"_ Hyourinmaru commands, so sure hope is not lost, _"Go find the man you will become, and discover the boy you are."_

A defensive edge to his tumultuous thoughts, Toushirou considers pointing out that he wasn't exactly in his right mind while flying around aimlessly for years — had Hiyourinmaru said _years?_ But a small part of Toushirou wonders if — _had he been aware of the situation_ — he might have fought even harder to postpone the inevitable.

_"It would be wise not to dwell upon the past," _advises his sage dragon. "_The present is quite enough to be getting along with."_

Toushirou doesn't bother responding because he can't bring himself to contradict those optimistic words, regardless of their impracticality. Instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, vaguely awkward after spending so much time in the air. He retreats into his past training, recalling techniques to calm a beleaguered mind.

Hiyourinmaru gives voice to Toushirou's thoughts, providing definition and power. _"Courage is not the antithesis of fear, youngling. Rather, courage the acknowledgement that something else is of greater importance than that which frightens you."_

Toushirou allows himself a moment's trepidation, then nods once. He cannot stay here in white capped purgatory; there's no purpose in a life spent in self imposed exile. Then, he sets his gaze steadily upon his dragon, wanting those implacable yet oddly reassuring eyes to be the last thing he sees before leaving. He hopes to borrow a measure of their fortitude, and he waits expectantly for dismissal.

But one second becomes twenty becomes one minute becomes three, and Toushirou begins to wonder why Hiyourinmaru has not sent him away.

An eloquent brow raised, Toushirou asks pointedly, "Well, then? Anything else before I go?"

With a gravelly underscore to his voice, just a hint of mirth, the dragon replies, _"You've **chosen** to go, have you? Good. I think if you close your eyes and open your mind, you will find your way back is clear. After all, it's been a long time since you needed my help to make your way hither and thither."_

Too keyed up to feel foolish or annoyed, Toushirou merely exhales as the winter realm of his ice dragon begins to ebb away. The howling wind warbs in and out of focus in his ears like a poorly tuned radio, and the horizon distorts, sky and ground mixing like a pin wheel spinning its colors too fast to name. And then it all — the sensory evidence of frozen wonderland — slips away, one element then another, out of the corner of his eye.

As everything perishes in a great tableau of nonsense, the suppressed emotions caging him there leak into his heart, becoming solid and heavy. And his eyelids fall shut under the pressure of things he must but doesn't want to face.


	14. Act II Scene vii

_Act II Scene vii_

In a hospital room with a large window to the west, pair of lungs rise and fall in rhythm with a mechanical beeping. For ten beeps, one steady breath in and out.

There is threadbare comfort in the beeping and the breathing for those who still visit.

For too long, they've stopped by, drumming knuckles tunelessly against the door frame to fill the listless, measured atmosphere with something spontaneous. Some of them sit in the chair beside the bed and stare hopelessly at the shriveled figure tucked between the stark sheets.

A few old friends come seeking a word, pouring out their troubles or triumphs or a snappy joke they might have overheard while waiting in line at the ramen stand around the corner.

One of them comes every Thursday with two shot glasses and a bottle of sake; somehow she always leaves with an empty bottle but her drinking partner never partakes.

Another of them comes every Sunday with candy and a newspaper which he reads aloud in docile voice, occasionally interjecting his thoughts on current events; the top drawer of the nightstand is filled with the individually wrapped candies from each visit.

The most common visitor prefers to leave her friend to his dreams, waiting for him to wake and tell her all about them; and while she waits, she jots down her thoughts in a worn notebook, so she'll get it all right when she has the chance tell him how much she has missed him. How much he matters.

The last of those faithful attendees doesn't bother with jokes, drinks, news, or notes. Under her breath, she provides a constant stream of insults, insinuations, and challenges, hoping to goad him into waking or, at the very least, siphon off her frustration with the impasse. Aside from her disparaging remarks, she likes to "do up his hair" when words can no longer contain her agitation. Whether frilly bowed pig-tails and rainbow beaded braids, she thinks he might wake up for no other reason than to escape the shame.

So far, her plan has been as unsuccessful as anyone else's.

But today is different.

The insult-slinging hair dresser's too exhausted to do much more than hunch over in the chair beside the bed and nod-off with her head drooping onto her unresponsive companion's arm.

And while she naps, Toushirou stirs imperceptibly. One finger twitches to prove it can, and his brow crinkles as though under the weight of deep contemplation. Then, his chapped lips move wordlessly, capturing a shuddering breath and holding it to prolong the moment before he opens his eyes.

Then the moment in flux ends, and waking begins.


	15. Act II Scene iix

_Act II Scene iix_

The aftermath of half life comes on quickly, and the sharpness of reality startles Toushirou. The room is rather cold, smelling strongly of sterilizing agents undercut by a vague manufactured scent like plastic; it's unnatural after so long in self-contained wilderness. Opening his eyes to find the sun setting just beyond the tops of trees past the lip of the window sill across the room, Toushirou's mildly surprised to find himself propped up on pillows. Something warm pressed against his right side tugs his attention away from the more mundane elements of his surroundings.

Gaze shifting toward the warm something at his elbow, Toushirou discovers mass of hair, burnished gold by the dying sun against its natural dark. His desperate stare traces the obscured face to the curled body, knees folded under her to combat the cool breeze blowing from the vent directly above them. A girl snoozes away.

Toushirou forgets to breathe; he can only watch a stray tendril dance in the cold air and remember a similar stray tendril dancing above a bloodless face. His eyes, new again somehow, devour the movement of each strand. Loath to blink in case she disappears, moisture gathers round the edges of his vision, rendering all but her muddled and irrelevant.

The beeping from the machine in the corner abruptly changes tempo, speeding, then hitching, and then leveling off somewhere between its original sluggish pace and the manic gallop of a minute earlier. The stringent beeping intrudes upon his discombobulated perceptions, and it seems to slow ever so slightly as he tries to decide what it means. And it comes to him forcefully.

One beep for each beat of his heart.

His throat contracts painfully, and he swallows. The warmth against the exposed skin of his right arm intensifies slightly, and he knows she's breathing on him, comforted in her dreams because he's with her. But he is not comforted.

How could he have ever abandoned her? How could he have been so stupid, so afraid of her death that he'd missed years of her life?

_"The past, youngling,"_ a calm voice whispers in his ear. _"This is a new day."_

A covert smile threatens to overtake his haunted expression. The dim awareness that his dragon neglected to mention Momo's survival cannot compete with the fact that she's alive. He can't muster any anger or resentment because his joy is too profound.

Of course, it will take time to mend the wounds he's inflicted upon his Momo, but they have time.

Time.

Now, time is calling, a beeping in the background prompting him to make the most of each beat, and something else, a subtle difference in the as-per-usual, daring him to tell her she doesn't need to dream of him anymore because he's awake. More than awake; suddenly, vividly alive.

Idly, he remembers her drooling on him under stars, and the longing to see her eyes grow wide with astonishment becomes unbearable. His lips move, mouthing her name and forcing his vocal chords to aid him in rousing her.

"Momo," he whispers, barely chagrined to hear his voice cracks halfway through. But the annoyance fades as she mumbles something disagreeable and shifts away from him.

Toushirou smirks. This is new. Usually, she wakes the instant she hears her first name, knowing he and their grandmother are the only people who still call her that.

Switching tactics, he murmurs "Hinamori" with as much authority as his parched tongue can rally. Then, like a shot lightening, she straightens to standing as if expecting a reprimand.

It would be funny if several things weren't abruptly obvious. Things which leech any happiness from this reunion.

Firstly, her sleep-tousled hair is deepest black without the final rays of sun to paint it over gold. Secondly, her eyes, peering at him incredulously, are midnight blue as opposed to cinnamon brown. Thirdly, her sudden scowl is about an unexpected as it is unwelcome.

**In short, this is not Momo Hinamori.**


	16. Act II Scene ix

_Act II Scene ix_

"So, it's true what they say about you catching on fast," _Not-_Momo mutters sullenly, but with a hint of inexplicable caution, "You already know my surname, and we've never even met. Bit freaky, but I'm willing to overlook it for _her _sake."

Completely lost, Toushirou merely blinks.

Apparently content to continue talking without explanation or his input, she rambles on with her arms folded across her chest defensively. "So, my name is Karin Hinamori. Just Karin, to you though 'cause, honestly, family should stick to the basics, right? So, no 'Hinamori' business. It'd be confusing anyway. _Just_ Karin.

"Momo should be here any minute, so I'll only say this once. You—" Karin points at him with all the severity of a loin prepared to lunge. "—better put on a big grin and let her mother you without complaining. I've heard you can be a bit dodgy about being hugged and cried over and getting touchy-feely, but I'm not gonna put up with any bullshit on your end."

"Um… what?" Toushirou manages. He tries to sit up straighter, to gesticulate his objections with his hands, to move a muscle, but — much to his increasing displeasure — his muscles are too weak from atrophy to obey.

Karin smirks hugely, obviously clued into his uncomfortable predicament. Taking a step closer to him and grabbing his hand in a very human gesture of greeting, she whispers simply, **"Welcome back, brother. You've been missed."**

Toushirou can only stare, repeating her words over and over and over in his head, looking for meaning and finding only cotton confusion.

"Momo's told me all about you, of course," she continues warmly, "It'll be cool to see if the rumors are true. Like… well…" Her navy eyes scurry to the corner of the room as her expression becomes vaguely pained; the words on the tip of her tongue are reluctant to be said. Regrouping, she turns back to him with a sympathizing smile and presses on, "Well, the whole 'sleeping will make you grow' thing seems be true. Worked wonders, in fact. You look about Momo's age now, and good old Unohana-taicho says you're physically about fifteen." Then — with the air of one who makes it a habit to wander off on tangents — she adds thoughtfully, "Totally the pits, in my opinion. Why do you guys get to look properly teenaged when I'm stuck looking about thirteen? _Really unfair—_"

Without warning, a sound between a hack and a cough interrupts her rant. Dumbfounded, Karin stares at him in alarm, hoping he's not about to die or something because that would really put Momo off her current good mood. Toushirou's brain scans from earlier in the day showed increased activity which sent their nominal sister into a frenzy of bright smiles and happy dancing.

Then, as the hack-cough subsides into a sort of wry smirk, realization hits her. "Are you… were you _laughing _at me?" Karin asks, awestruck. Such a thing would be… impossible, surely.

"No," he replies firmly, but neither one of them are remotely convinced.

Karin nods slowly, but her own wry smirk proves that she doesn't believe him. "It would only be fair to laugh, I suppose," she admits ruefully, "I've laughed at you enough the last two years to put me soundly in your debt. I mean, come on — your hair, for example, has been a great source of amusement for me… _and_ everyone else."

"My hair?" he prods tentatively, wondering — fearing — her meaning.

"Toushirou," she says cajolingly, and she says his name with ease, confidence, familiarity, but it hits his ears in a new way like she invented his name herself. "What kind of little sister would I be if I didn't have a little fun at your expense?" Misinterpreting the stunned expression on his face, she mumbles apologetically, "Okay, 'little fun' might be understating things, but 'loads of fun' sounded mean-spirited in my head."

Because he can find nothing better to say, Toushirou mutters, "Oh, shut up, _just _Karin," because she's just so exhausting.

She laughs, he sighs, and everything is different. Again.


End file.
